


New Horizons

by Mertiya



Category: Atlantis: The Lost Empire (2001), Disney - All Media Types
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Grumpy Old Men, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 11:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11160939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: It's late and Preston wonders what it would be like to kiss Thad without a bet as the impetus.





	New Horizons

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Full on the Mouth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/650333) by [IncurableNecromantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic). 



_“You cannot swim for new horizons until you have courage to lose sight of the shore.”_ _― **William Faulkner**_

            The fire crackled warmly, but its light was not enough to push back the stuffy darkness of the living room. Preston could have risen or summoned a servant to turn on the electric lights, but he elected not to. In the semi-darkness, it was easier to sink back into the soft armchair and daydream. Pointless to lie to himself any longer about his true desires, perverted as they might be. And some small vicious piece of himself thought, _Well, if my father thought it was wrong, how bad can it be?_

If Thaddeus were a woman—if Preston were _normal_ —if they were both normal—such a scene might have ended very differently. He would not have had to pretend disgust during the kiss; the photograph might have showed a tender moment, a moment of discovery. Preston let his eyes drift closed. There was no harm in imagining things. He was an old man now, after all. His lips quirked. An old, _rich_ man. Eccentricities were expected, and no one could see the inside of his head.

            He could imagine—there was no harm in _imagining_ —that as Helga left and the servants began to prepare themselves for bed, Thaddeus slipped back down the dark driveway and stood in the entrance to this room. Preston thought of him hovering in the doorway and then—suddenly full of some bravery or recklessness that Preston had never had but Thaddeus always had—entering, sliding onto the arm of the chair. Bending down. The brush of their lips for the second time in Preston’s life—in privacy, in _safety_. No longer the result of a bet, but the result of their decades-long friendship culminating in this one moment where all illusions and social expectations were stripped away.

            There was something wet on Preston’s cheek, and he reached up to flick away the single tear that had wormed its way out of the corner of his eye. He sighed. An old man’s foolish imaginings, but at least there was no harm in it.

            Someone at the door cleared their throat.

            Preston jerked in the chair, eyes flying open, heart suddenly thumping erratically in his chest. He had an absurd desire to protest that he had been thinking of nothing—nothing at all, despite the fact that, as he had just reminded himself, no one could see the inside of his head. He looked over, stifling the ridiculous protest.

            Thaddeus was standing in the door.

            All protests died on Preston’s lips, and he searched in confusion for an explanation. “You—forgot your hat?” he croaked hoarsely, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation and tamp down the sudden, absurd flutter in his chest.

            “My dear Pres,” Thaddeus said softly and then seemed to stall, tugging at his beard in some confusion. “Forgive me if I’m making you uncomfortable, but—” he halted. “I had your chauffeur drop me off again, told him I’d forgot my umbrella, actually.”

            “You didn’t bring an umbrella, which was extremely foolish of you,” Preston told him.

            “Your chauffeur believed me.” Thaddeus hovered in the doorway. “If—If I’m wrong—well, I trust you. I’m sure you won’t—” He shrugged, frowned, sighed, and then looked fixedly at the ceiling. “You seemed remarkably enthusiastic about fulfilling the terms of our bet. I confess I wasn’t expecting such—enthusiasm.”

            Preston stared, then wormed a hand down to his wrist and pinched it, hard. He was dreaming. He had to be dreaming. Or perhaps—Thaddeus was just—was simply asking for an explanation? “I—” he said. He did not know how to respond.

            “If I kissed you again—would you object?” Thaddeus shuffled back and forth.

            Preston’s heart gave another huge thud. _All you have to say is ‘yes’,_ he thought sternly. If he said yes, everything would go back to the way it was normally. It hurt sometimes, but it was safe. It was easy. It was within the bounds of society’s norm—a close friendship between two men, but nothing more. It was _acceptable_.

            Thaddeus had always been the braver of the two of them, the fool. Preston closed his eyes. Perhaps the yawning specter of the sanitarium that had dogged him his whole life was nothing more than his father’s last twisted attempt to control his son. And what did it matter, weighed against a world where he lied to his best friend? “No, Thad,” he managed.

            “Thank god,” Thaddeus sighed, and he took two strides across the room to the armchair. He did not slide onto the arm; he bent down over its occupant, hands braced on his shoulders, and pressed their mouths together. His mouth was warm, and so were his hands. All Preston could do was reach up and put his hands on Thaddeus’ waist, holding on tight, like an anchor in the midst of a sudden storm.

            Thaddeus curved toward him and deepened the kiss, lips parting, whiskers tickling deliciously at Preston’s upper lip. He was utterly silent, utterly absorbed. A hand moved to Preston’s hair, and Preston found his own mouth opening. Their tongues touched gently, and Preston discovered he could pull a sudden soft gasp out of Thaddeus by brushing his tongue across the inside of the other man’s lip.

            Heat sparked inside Thaddeus in a way he had not felt in a long time; his hands tightened at Preston’s waist, crumpling the cloth of the other man’s coat beneath them. “Damn, Thad,” he managed as they paused for breath. “Damn. You make a man—brave.”

            Thaddeus ran a hand along the side of Preston’s face and studied him intently. “I think I’ve wanted to do that for thirty years,” he said wonderingly.

            Preston, yielding to his urges in a way he did not think he had ever done, turned his head to the side and kissed the palm of Thaddeus’s hand. “God,” he said. “I have been too afraid to do that for thirty years."  The words were raw and ripped out of him.

            “Better late than never,” Thad murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of Preston’s mouth. He took a deep breath. “Come to bed with me?”

            The fear clawed at Preston again. There were people who could _see_ them—there were servants ( _none of them would enter your bedroom without your permission_ ); there was Helga ( _doesn’t arrive early, wouldn’t intrude on your privacy anyway_ ); there was Milo to think of. It was the last that made him get out a muttered question. “Milo?”

            Thaddeus smiled faintly. “Your housekeeper let me use the telephone. I called him and let him know that the weather was such that I might not make it home tonight. I have occasionally stayed overnight at the museum; he will be fine.”

            But he was trembling slightly. Preston took his own deep breath. Society could go hang. “You make a man brave,” he repeated slowly, and he leaned upward to kiss Thad again. “Yes.”

            Thad’s answering smile was like sunshine breaking through clouds.


End file.
